


The Eleventh Hour

by synonym



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym/pseuds/synonym
Summary: Raffles, for the first time, recounts a tale while residing in Earl's Court. He pens the story of one of the most horrific events that came to pass, as the hardships of Italy had not been truly behind him until one of either party had the last laugh. What he had failed to realize nearly costs him something much more precious than his own life; Bunny's.





	The Eleventh Hour

I’m assuming one would be expecting Bunny when picking up this story, but I’m afraid one would be sorely mistaken. He is asleep, rightfully so, as you must know by the start of this tale that the concept escapes me currently due to the fact that my mind continues to wreak havoc with the happenings of earlier. I’m sitting at his desk, mulling over the stories of our youth he has so affectionately compiled, he dotes on my brilliance far too often, and doesn’t give himself half as much of the credit in its utmost deserving nature. I tell him so, but he simply raises his tawny eyebrows at my comments and smiles all the while turning back into his little world. This is his domain of mastery of which I could never come close to being able to imitate, at least not nearly as close as he is to imitating mine, but there is something to be said of letting the woes trickle off my chest into the written word, so on I must. 

Since the dust had settled at Earl’s Court, and Bunny had secured his position through myself under the strict habits of Theobald, our nightly ventures increased in frequency along with the comforts of understanding the regime. I cannot begin to express the depth of which having him there improved my disposition. When he had first walked into the darkened room (which I hesitate to compare to a prison cell, but my mind leaned on the dramatic then--and even still), I could not keep the corners of my mouth from shifting upwards despite the hours of practice whilst I had laid confined to the space the surface of the bed allowed.

He had carried a worn expression in the dark shades beneath his eyes and hard pressed lips, his face thinned through months of rigorous labour, defining the angles in his cheeks in ways I never believed they could, as even when I first met him in his youth he had been blessed with a soft boyishness as one would call a cherub that walked among mortal men. His clothes seemed slack, as if they were melting off his shoulders, and his complexion seemed void of the rose colour that had been a near constant upon his cheeks as I knew him prior. These small details did nothing, however, to lessen the sheer heart pounding beauty of his straw-coloured hair, the dip of his nose, the kind, ever-lit blue eyes that peered at me in my shadows. There were moments during the hardest times I had faced in Italy (though fleeting as I always have prided myself on my quick wit and relentlessness) where the deepest fear I had harboured, the only one that could turn my blood cold and cause me to tremble as I attempted to close my eyes in rest, was not the thought of knocking on death’s door, but the very thought I would never lay eyes on him again. For months I had clinged to the memories of his curves, his voice, his movements; and the further they got, the less detail they appeared in, and the more the panic filled my lungs, as if I was still partially drowning in the sea, yet entirely on land. 

This is not the story I wish to tell; and I will admit, pen to paper, that in this sudden recollection I had to pause to go study my boy’s face for a time to calm the nerves that came over me as if I had been thrusted back into the humid mines that smelled of human bodily fluids and iron. Let us return to the nights we spent roaming streets under Theobald’s unsightly nose. 

We had taken a stroll in Palace Gardens. The night had been mild one, the perfume of a plethora of different floral aromas waxed and waned throughout the evening, playing in harmony with the warm wind. It reminded me of a concerto I couldn’t quite place, and it remains just out of reach. My mind is not what it used to be--still alive with the spark of fresh ideas like the sprout in rich soil, but many of the old seeded crops had withered when met with poison my body had no use for, and had been replaced with survival methods that I had to implement in my hiding. 

“There is something to be lamented of suffering,” I murmured lightly as we passed bushes scattered with hydrangeas, “As it does heighten the joyful details of life that seldom go arm-in-arm with appreciation.” 

“I believe you, then, to have far too much appreciation for such details, more than one needs in a lifetime,” Bunny said, with a tone that was laced in a gentle hesitation. His voice had always remained, throughout the time of which I’ve known him, the vocal equivalent of a warm hum of light that gives a room a sense of comfort.

“As have you, my boy.”

“Only through you have I come to appreciate it, though.”

The frustration prickled at my neck, however I kept a tight lip on my reflexive desire to retort with such a tone. I felt his eyes cast sideways, his arm shifting in its curled position around mine ever so slightly inward, and I busied myself with guiding our bodies along the path in the direction of the familiar road.

I wished for him to speak of the hardships he had faced when I was carving mineral in the crevices of Italy, as I had heard nothing of them and for months had been met with a resolute avoidant nature whenever I attempted to broach the topic. I had already poured my tales to him of my time away and I, foolishly in hindsight, had thought it may prompt him to respond in kind with his own. This did not occur, and I had waited patiently for weeks before resorting to subtleties such as conversation starters that involved incarceration and making rather insensitive remarks of daily arrests I sought out in the papers. There were many times it had been on the tip of my tongue, while he ran a hand through his golden locks and rearranged the garments of his nightwear that seemed to engulf his thinned body as he sat on the edge of my bed, where I nearly outright entreated he tell me every detail that escaped me when I dove into the icy waters. Instead I gave myself a harsh reminder that he would confide in me when he was ready to do so, and allowed him to give me a small, half smile before returning to his rooms. 

“Let us return home,” I said with an air, I hoped, that did not convey the strained aura of my own thoughts. It was not due to him I felt such aggravation, but rather the situation as a whole, and it was a source of agony that I had far too much time to catalogue in my bedridden restlessness. 

He hummed in agreement and on we went until we were sneaking silently into the dark rooms which we currently inhabited. Thinking back, I recall something, a motion in the corner of my eye as we made a turn on to our side road, but my mind had been preoccupied with the handsome blonde that had grazed his fingertips against my own while in vain I whispered the steps of entering the lodgings once more, simply so I could press my lips against his ear. Surely he knew them by that time, but he never said a word against the frequent iteration I uttered and I considered that a small victory. 

“I must pour myself a drink,” Bunny said, once we had securely found ourselves in the inside of our rooms, “May I mix you one?”

“No, thanks, my dear,” I had been gathering some clothing from the drawer nearest my bed when I caught the hitch in his movements, “man,” I finished lamely. 

I did not wish to disturb the comfortable nature of our present dynamic with an unknown I feared more than I could admit to him then. 

“Are there troubles wearing on your thoughts?” 

“Not at all, it’s merely that alcohol tends to act as ally to weariness, and I have no desire to sleep just yet.”

“If not sleep, is there something in particular you wish to do?”

I sheepishly admit to it now, but in that moment the only thing that came to my thoughts was a singular word and it was standing several feet in front of me, sipping a glass of scotch, his pink tongue darting out to catch a droplet falling against the side of it. I found myself turning my entire body away from the image as if it would dissipate the burning desire into a sensation I could have much more restraint upon. He had been coming back into his colour and healthy weight over past several months, and the ache for him only grew.

“Nothing in particular,” I said whilst waving the garment in my hand, “Go change into your pyjamas as I do the same, and surely we will come up with something to pass the time.”

“Very well,” Bunny said, placing his drink down and giving me a warm smile, “I will be sure to check that Theobald is not in or near our midst.”

“Theobald, although seldom so recently, has done his fair share of skulking in the past,” I mused.

His soft laughter was my reward and I revisit sometimes still to this moment as I write this, as it was the moment prior to the slow, chaotic, crumbling event that I would catalogue as the worst--beyond Italy, beyond anything--time of my existence. 

He gently shut the door behind him with a barely audible click and I made quick work of my pyjamas before throwing myself upon my self-acclaimed prison bunk in wait of his return. 

My thoughts wandered during my wait. In hindsight, which is the crux of the matter, I wish I had been more vigilant of the time and its passing. I felt myself abhorrent in body and soul and my fear manifested itself into what my boy saw in me. I could tell in his kindly manner and affectionate gazes that he adored me still. But he had always adored me, and adoration does not equate to physical attraction, as I had much attempting to deduce in him. I took every minute with him as an opportunity to find some telltale indicator of his desire for me, however I could not find one that could not also be explained through idolization and long term affection. I could understand if he did not: he remained ethereal and intoxicating as he had always been, and I look like I had aged twenty years instead of a mere two. 

It is a strange concept, to ache for someone so deeply it caused breathlessness, when they were hardly, most hours of the day, much more than several feet away if that. It pains me to admit to it now, but there were days in our youth (and when I use the term youth I use it lightly as it was only several years ago) when I would not think twice of his hands tracing the edges of my entire arm as I engulfed him in them. His lips against the tips of my fingers, the smell of damp, cleanly locks against my cheeks. The languid, almost surreal events of having Bunny in my arms, much less writhing under me in throws of passion, was so commonplace (although I must deeply express to the act which was never common and I never tired of it with him) I believed it to be an infinite well of which I would never run out of. There was a sense of irony mixed with agony now at that particular flippant thought that would be extremely difficult to portray in print. 

Since his settling into his place at Earl’s Court, I had expected something to shift between us. My monumental realization in the spring of 1894, which only took a nearly fatal misstep, accidental yet self induced drugging, and an incalculable amount of blind faith in my little rabbit, to realize there was a very simple definition for the feelings that had been locked inside my chest for some time. I can be surprisingly obtuse for a man of many talents. How can one truly know of falling in love if one had never experienced it until then? We had carried a romantic relationship that had begun, metaphorically speaking, the minute he had showed up at my door (Now that is a story for another day, not a particularly long one, but Bunny had told his perspective of our reunion after those many years apart, and as I recall, he forwent mentioning how inexplicably attractive he had gotten, but I will quickly surmise it with merely saying: I am devastated I was not around to see him blossom into it) and it had transcended into something a title could not do justice. Needless to say, once I had gotten my boy back, I naturally had assumed at least some part of our love affair would piece itself back together like planets returning into their constant, seamless orbit around the sun. As I have expressed prior, this had not been the case. The return element of our friendship was immediate, which had resulted in several intrusive and unpleasant thoughts all relating to his view of my physical state as well as the yet to be described horrors of his incarceration.

These musings continued for some time, a time of which I cannot pinpoint to the minute regrettably, the first thing that occurred to me when returning back to the present was how confounding silent it was. It was a building that its noise grew with the age of it, and during my days spent doing simply nothing but recollection and listening to the echos of the house, I had picked up on nuances that occurred when and where individuals were moving throughout it. I listened then, waiting for the inevitable creaks, but nothing came. I waited several more minutes and still not a sound was to be heard. I sat up.

The back of my neck prickled and I threw on my robe over my pyjamas. I waited with my hand on the knob of the door, listening again for a sign of movement. I was met with the same deafening silence as before. I ventured out upon the balls of my bare feet. 

It was dark in the halls, and I considered a light source before silently shutting the door of my rooms, but I had no desire to rouse nor attract the menial attentions of the mediocre doctor. I knew the layout fairly well, as even before Bunny I had found myself moving about the place in spasmodic boredom while making a mental list of every unconventional exit.

It was an easy task to slip into Bunny’s quarters. I found myself in minutes, slowly releasing the handle while having just entered the small space to spin around and find…

Absolutely nothing. It had been untouched since we had left earlier that evening, not one object altered or moved in the slightest. This is the first instance of some unidentifiable sinking feeling forming in the pit of my stomach, as the logical points were not meeting in harmony. Had he been out in the halls, I would have heard. There is no way around it: even I could not make it through without at least a small creak, and Bunny, though he tries his best, has never been very good at quiet motions and identifying loose floorboards. He was not in his room, and had never made it to them, which left Dr. Theobald’s study or outside of the flat entirely as I could safely rule out the living quarters of the doctor and his wife. 

I ran the risk and checked the study all the while attempting to regulate my breathing, which was feeling increasingly difficult to master. It was in vain, as the results yielded exactly what logic dictated it would be; Bunny was not in the vicinity of the flat. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reverse version of the events of 'The Last Laugh' mostly following the linear story line with a few necessary changes.  
> Thanks to Ernest for beta-ing and being the best Raffles scholar there is.


End file.
